I know a NASCAR driver, and also there's a trailer park five minutes away from my house. There's an enormous sign at the side of the road advertising it so everybody that comes to my house for the first time automatically assumes I live in a trailer with a 'sandy beach.' My grandfather was an Irish immigrant who moved to Quebec to drink every night (when he wasn't working 12 hours a day as a blue collar laborer) and get into bar fights with the french people there, convinced they were all faggots. He fell off a bridge he was building one day when he was hung over, broke every bone in his body, lost an eye, and got a peg leg. Sometimes, when my life starts to suck, I think about calling Jerry cause it'd be cheaper than therapy. Plus my dad dresses like a serious homo.

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